Walk with the Shadows
by pippa21336
Summary: An Elder Scrolls/Sherlock crossover fic. Johnlock mostly and Mormor, later hints at Mystrade. Rated T at the moment, but it might change later to M... Hopefully.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

John was dreaming.

He knew he was dreaming because he was sat on a bed, but also on the other side of the room, watching himself; that odd, out-of-body-experience kind of thing that only happens in strange dreams. He also knew he was dreaming because sat next to him on the bed was Sherlock, and they were kissing.

Real-John watched, his jaw hanging slack somewhere near the floor, as the dark-haired man pushed Dream-John back against the bed, a small, triumphant smirk pulling on his bright, lush lips as he brought them in close to his ear, whispering something in low and husky tones that, although the dreaming man couldn't hear, made him moan with no restraint.

And then there was pressure. Only something soft, but definitely there, something that felt very much like a warm hand on his stomach, the sensation breaking through his subconscious and dripping down into his dream. Breathless, obviously-aroused and almost comically flushed from head to toe, Dream-John was already naked by this point and, of course, as he looked down, now so was Real-John; his length already hot, hard and aching against between his thighs, begging for attention. The ghost-pressure rubbed soft, soothing circles across his stomach for a moment, leaving a pleasant trail of warmth in its wake, before _finally_dipping down below his waistline and gripping him gently, almost inquisitively. Something - probably a thumb - trailed gently across the over-sensitive skin and his eyes fluttered, not quite closing, his dream making sure he could see crystal-clear as Sherlock, whose eyes seemed to be burning with some kind of hot, intense mischief, began to slowly push inside his dream-twin, whispering to him again. This time, the position of the words didn't quite seem to match the movements of his mouth, and John found soft breath tickling behind his ear as words made themselves known in that same familiar baritone that was constantly sending shivers down his spine, even though it was laced with groggy sleepiness.

"We'll speak about this in the morning…"

Looking at it now that was a life-time ago for John, back when they were still in Cyrodiil, a different life altogether almost…

Perhaps the beginning might be good place to start.

John Watson was a Nord through and through. Born in Solitude just after the end of the civil war, he had joined the Imperial Legion the day the turned eighteen - well, sixteen, but the Legion didn't need to know that - and had helped on the 'tidying up' side of things, capturing any of the small enemy settlements that were still dotted in the wilderness and clearing out the ruins of old forts to be used as defensive vantage points across the country. He was perfectly happy there, knowing he was fighting for the Empire, to protect his land, and he very quickly became a well-respected.  
That was until he took an arrow to the shoulder, two days shy of his thirty-first birthday, while out on a patrol through the Skyrim tundra. An enchanted arrow.

It came from a necromancer - disgusting, twisted people - and John guessed it must have been some kind of paralysis enchantment because, even after the wound was cleaned and the arrow removed, his left hand shook profusely and, for the first few months, he couldn't walk without a stick. No-one seemed to have a cure, no-one accept Sherlock Holmes of course, but he and his enchantments happen later. Before Sherlock, it did get manage to get a little bit better, he could walk unaided - mind, he still did have a very obvious limp - after about two months, and could soon hold a sword again. Skip forward another six months and he was hiring himself out as a sell-sword, travelling all across the continent, from the forests of Valenwood to the shores of Morrowind, to feel the warmth of a bottle of mead in his stomach and hear the soft jingle of coin in his pocket.

It was during a job closer to home, over in the small town that was the remains of Winterhold, it's imposing college looming high above everything with the piercing gaze of a hawk, did he finally meet the insufferable, arrogant elf that was about to become so much a part of his life, he would one day scarcely be able to breathe without him there, Sherlock Holmes.

The 'scarcely being able to breathe' bit didn't actually come for a long while, until they were almost finished their journey from the college with supplies to sell down in the Imperial City in fact. They were already in Bruma by the time the 'Dream Incident' finally happened. John hated to call it that. An 'incident', as though it were some sort of mistake with embarrassing consequences, but Sherlock - who was always so precise in the way he categorized things - liked to call it that, so the name stuck. Either way, the inevitable event itself took a long time to come about, and John was ultimately glad it happened the way it did because, although he had been lusting after his employer like a bitch in heat since the man had given him one small glance and laid his entire life story out in front of him, as though reading points from a map of the Empire, he never would have had the guts to tell him, and in the end, coin would have been exchanged, hands shaken, and they would both have gone their separate ways, never knowing how empty their lives were without the other; the broken soldier and the genius Mage, a man so brilliant, surely he should out-live the stars.

Sherlock, on reaching the Imperial City and being able to collect the correct equipment also finally told John he could in fact heal his leg with a spell and accompanying tonic - "Why didn't you tell me that before?!" 'I didn't think you'd be staying around all that long. You weren't important at the time.' "You won't be staying around for long either if you're not careful…" - and set about making it the very next day.  
Once they were both ready, John took the tonic and let Sherlock recite the spell, before taking his new lover's hand and guiding him up to the private guest's quarters to bed him properly for the first time.  
Laying there in warm, post-orgasmic bliss hours later, his beautiful elf snoring softly next to him under the soft, silken covers, John, for the first time in his life, realized his was well and truly happy, and extremely excited for the wonderful, peaceful life he and Sherlock would share together.

Or so he though…

* * *

AN:

So, hi guys. I'm posting on here again. Yeah. Wow. If you see any mistakes (I'm crap at proof-reading, I'm sorry) just tell me.

Also… I'm going to promise slash.  
I am. I swear. *She says, trying to hide the fact she is actually a huge pussy when it comes to posting slash*

So anyway, sorry if this was a little short, it was only an intro to get the backstory down. I _think _I'll be going from Skyrim to Cyrodiil during the duration of the fic… Not sure how I'm going to do that with how I have it planned out but hey, you live and learn!

Hope you enjoyed x


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"He's your _brother_, Sherlock, he can't be _that_ bad."

Sherlock shot John a disdained look from under the hood of his pale green robe - a light, almost airy thing that clung to him in all sorts of distracting ways and, John was sure, was far too revealing for a summons to the Imperial City Palace of all places, but Sherlock deemed it perfectly reasonable, and so the ex-soldier really had no room to argue. He never did with Sherlock.

"Yes, that's exactly why he's so bad," the Mage snapped, the dark cloak that he hadn't even bothered removing on entry to the building billowing out behind him as he stormed through the brilliant halls at a pace so fast he was surely doing the plush carpets a lifetime's wear with each step, not to mention making it almost impossible for John to catch up with him.

"He's an arrogant, self-centred beast of a man, who thinks he can send his little toy soldiers out to bully me into helping him," Sherlock continued, his tone dripping with acid, "He practically is the Empire, when he's not being the Aldmeri Dominion on a freelance basis." He tutted in disgust, coming to an almost screeching stop outside a large set of ornate doors either side of which stood two guards in smart well-polished armour, red dragons adorning their chests, bows slung across their backs.

"Sally," Sherlock regarded the Redguard woman on his right with a tight, snarky smile, before turning to the dark-haired Bosmer at her side, "Anderson."

They both sneered back.

"What are you doing here, freak?" Sally asked, voice dripping with animosity as she folded her arms across her chest, looking him up and down. John, for the time being, went completely ignored.

"I was invited," Sherlock replied, his tone sarcastically mocking and simple, as though he were talking to a complete idiot, which, in his mind at least, he was, "By my brother. I think he wanted to talk to me."

"Well, you know what I think?" she replied, lips tensed in something akin to a snarl.

"Always, Sally," Sherlock shot her that same false-smile. He really was one step short of sticking his tongue out at her like a child, John thought. "Come along John."

John scampered behind quickly, eyes fixed on the floor in pure mortification.

"Who was that?" he asked, catching up with Sherlock's long strides, huffing slightly under his breath.

"An idiot," Sherlock replied simply and John scowled.

"Sherlock, that's cruel," he scolded, "Not to mention unnecessary."

"It really wasn't, they both had it coming to be- By the Eight, Mycroft!"

Sherlock's tone dripped with surprise and disgust, enough to make John follow his line of sight, his own eyes growing wide.

In one of the thirty tall-backed, dark mahogany chairs that stood around the stone table at the centre of the Elder Council Chamber a handsome, red-haired Altmer - who was obviously Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, judging by the man's outburst - sat with another man, an Imperial with silver hair - apparently the Captain of the Imperial Watch according to his armoured uniform - knelt above him, both of them engrossed in what seemed to be a fierce battle of tongue and lips.

"_What _are you doing?" Sherlock demanded, his pale skin flushing its own red, one of pure fury. Mycroft shrugged noncommittally; turning back to the man he had been kissing and smiling softly up at him, pushing him slowly off his lap.

"I'll see you later, Greg," he murmured, finally standing - he was actually just an inch or so taller than the Guard Captain when he stood up straight, as were most Altmer - and leaning down to give him a peck on the cheek, accompanied by a less than polite smack to the rear. His lover blushed and yelped, fumbling and almost dropping the grand, white helmet that he held under his arm, before quickly turning on his heel and hurrying away, up the steps and out of the door with a band that echoed about the densely silent room.

Mycroft watched him go with a look that was almost wistful, before turning back to his brother and slipping into his tight-lipped 'I really do hate formalities' smile.

"Sherlock," he said in a tone far too polite to be speaking to his own brother, and then turned to John, "Oh and you brought your 'friend' too… Marvellous." He smiled slightly at John, a small shiver skipping nervously down the ex-soldier's spine.

"What. Was. That?" Sherlock demanded, his lips twisting up into a slight snarl.

"Oh, Greg?" Mycroft asked, as though he had forgotten about the encounter already, "Just... Keeping up a healthy relationship with the force, that's all." He smiled again, this time something that was half-way believable, before letting it drop away.

"I need to speak to you about something very serious."

"Wouldn't you rather be bedding your new boyfriend?" Sherlock snapped in reply, folding his arms across his chest and squaring his shoulders slightly.

"Wouldn't you rather be bedding yours?" Mycroft countered and, for a moment, between the profuse blushing and embarrassment, John couldn't help but find humour in how much like bickering children they looked.

Mycroft soon caught himself and straightened up again, taking a long breath to wipe his face of any emotion.

"I trust you're familiar with the 'Thieves Guild?'" he asked, the words dripping with a sort of sarcasm, as though a guild of thieves was the most ridiculous idea he'd ever heard.

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded. "_Of course_," he replied, still scowling but keeping his tone to something somewhat polite. Mycroft nodded.

"We've been running into a... Spot of trouble with them as of late," he explained, "Ever since they came under new 'management.'" He reached into the inside of his robes and pulled out a roll of thick parchment, holding it out to his brother only to be sharply ignored. John took it instead, earning him a scowl from his partner as he did so.

"James Moriarty, have you heard of him?" Mycroft asked, and Sherlock shook his head, "Well, you should have, you obviously haven't been paying enough attention." He shook his head. "We never had a single problem with the last Guildmaster, all of their 'jobs' came through us of course, but this follow has been less than… Compliant."

He turned back to his brother, looking serious.

"We need you to terminate James Moriarty's control, from the inside," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "Find out what up to, stop him through whatever means necessary, that sort of thing. Will you do it?"

The immediate response was a simple, "No," followed by a long, thoughtful pause and an almost dismissive, "I'll think about it," before the Mage turned sharply on his heel and stomped towards the door. John couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips as he looked after him, turning to roll his eyes at Mycroft who gave nothing but a small smile in return, reaching out a hand.

"Until next time, John," he said, as the Nord took his hand and shook it.

"Yeah, next time…" John replied, giving him a small nod before racing out after his other.

"I _hate_ him," Sherlock almost spat the words, pacing up and down behind John as he waited to be served at the counter of the Tiber Septim Hotel in the Talos Plaza District of the city. John ignored him.

"It's forty Septims for a double room," the woman behind the desk informed him, looking the two men up and down over her reading spectacles.

"We're not-" John began, almost as a reflex, then shook his head, "Yes, yeah, that'll be brilliant, thank you." Old habits, formed from months of being mistakenly called a couple by everyone everywhere, apparently do die hard.

John fished in his pockets and pulled out forty Septims worth of coins, placing them down on the counter; glad that the woman's piercing, sceptical gaze wasn't trained on him just for a moment as she counted the money. He could still feel Sherlock's at his back anyway, and that was enough for any man.

The stern-looking woman, after double, triple and quadruple checking, finally nodded, reaching into the draw of the counter and pulling out a large, old-looking key with a wooden block attached to the end by a metal ring.

"Last room on the left once you get to the top of the stairs," she deadpanned, dropping the key into John's hand before immediately turning back to the book she was writing in. John said a quick thank you, before taking Sherlock's hand, lacing his fingers through the other's familiar ones, and leading him up the stairs. The Mage scowled and wriggled out of his grip with a mutter of, "I know where it is," before storming off ahead of him. John sighed and followed behind, as always, each step muffled by the soft carpet, making the short journey seem even more monotonous.

When he finally reached the top, Sherlock was already stood by the door, tapping his foot impatiently, arms folded across his chest and a dangerous look in his eye. John hurried over and stuck the key in the lock, pushing it open to let Sherlock fly in with a whirl of dark cloak and provocative robes. Again, the ex-soldier followed behind with a roll of his eyes.

"Ah, ah, ah," he protested as Sherlock lay down on the bed, fingers steepled under his chin, "No you don't." He pushed him slightly, enough to sit down, and Sherlock rolled over with a grumble, arms folded across his chest and a huff escaping his lips.

"You almost didn't get the double room," he said, voice low and whiny like a child. John laughed.

"And you said you don't care what people think about us," he replied, giving the elf a small poke in the side. He squirmed away.

"You're just angry that Mycroft made you feel like an idiot," he continued, beginning to undo the clasps on his heavy iron boots, sliding his feet out and wriggling them free of stiffness, "That you couldn't _deduce_ the fact he's seeing someone."

Sherlock let out another grumble, snapping out a sharp, "Piss off," turning his head so John couldn't look him in the eye.

"But, if I piss off," John replied in the sweetest voice he could muster on such a thin temper, fiddling with the buckle on his breastplate as he tried to hold back a sigh, "You can't undress me…"

He waited a moment, but Sherlock still didn't move. He let out the sigh he had been holding back, albeit a bit more overdramatically than needed, before slowly beginning to lift himself from the bed. A soft creak of springs made him pause and soon there were long, pale hands splaying out across his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed.

"Stay," Sherlock murmured, voice surprisingly soft and close to his ear, "You insufferable brute…"

Slowly, with only the sound of leather being pulled through buckles and pins falling into place filling the room, John was undressed, plate by plate. First, the breastplate was removed; the soft, warm fur lining damp with perspiration, then came the turn of the thickly padded greaves about his legs and the Pauldron that protected his shoulders, the sound of metal against metal screeching in the silence. Sherlock's skilled hand paused when they reached the thick strap of John's belt, the heavy buckle that fastening the sheath of his sword to the leather cool under his fingertips as he dusted them over it, then down the blade's encasing. The hard, weather-word leather was familiar against his skin, as were the letters that were etched into it. He traced them slowly. _Drakenskirous_, Dragonsbane. The name sent a thrill through Sherlock's entire body and he pictured the blade beneath the casing. Pure, red-hued dragon's bone, with a grip and centre crafted of pure iron, precious gems embedded in the pommel. The Gods only know how John got that…

Eventually he tore his attention away from the sword, finally beginning to undo the belt and soon he was left in only his undergarments. His hands trailed down John's back and he muttered a small incantation under his breath, warming them just enough to soothe his lover's taut muscles. John shivered slightly, which seemed like the wrong reaction to have at the warmth of it all, but it felt _so good_. He caught the Mage's slender fingers as they began moving down his chest and began kissing his palm slowly. Sherlock stopped still.

"I… I'm not going to sleep with you," he said, voice breaking through the uneven silence quite timidly, "Not… Not tonight." John smiled softly.

"And does that mean I can't kiss you?" he asked, "I didn't realize they weren't both mutually exclusive…"

Sherlock paused again, seeming to have a moment of indecision.

"Kissing is… Fine," he confirmed after a moment, "But…" He scrambled away, reaching down to the end of the bed where his heavy pack was resting, tugging it up and pulling the drawstring open. He rummaged around for a moment before finally pulling out his lute.

The instrument was old and worn, the once bright-red paint worn away completely, leaving only the bare wood underneath. The gut strings were wearing thin as well, but Sherlock had a small container of those at the bottom of his pack. He seemed to be constantly changing and retuning them, tightening them and loosening them again until they were just right.

"I… Need to practice," the Mage informed him, and John smiled again. Sherlock was still… On unsettled grounds when it came to sex. There would be some night when he would gladly take John up to bed, strip him off slowly and take his time to study every inch of him. Then there were some nights when he was perfectly content to have John's warm body above him, to let him kiss and caress his skin in warm flows of passion and love as long or as hard as he wanted to.

Then there were some nights like tonight where he wouldn't have touched sex with a care pole, let alone 'waste' his time on it when he was busy. But John understood, he always had, better than anyone else he'd ever met before.

The ex-soldier smiled softly and patted the space next to him on the bed as he lifted his feet onto the covers.

"Come and play for me," he murmured with a reassuring smile. Sherlock returned the smile with one of his own and lay down next to his lover, head resting in his lap as he plucked softly at the strings, tightening and loosening them as he saw fit. Eventually, after the perfection of each and every note, his random strumming became something more tuneful, a soft melody that sounded like lullaby, but John recognized as a troop-rallying war-ballad from his time in the Legion, and several slightly ale-tinted evenings in various taverns across Skyrim.

Sherlock could do that; manipulate the music to suit his own needs, almost as well as he could with people.

John smiled softly and picked up the copy of _Guide to the Imperial City_ that rested on the bedside table, flicking through it with one hand as the other began combing through Sherlock's hair, twisting his soft ringlets about his fingers as he listening to Sherlock's soft voice as he sang under his breath, a song of passion, and war, and danger, and adventure, making John's eyes slowly begin to get heavier and heavier.

That evening they fell asleep in each other's arms, the soft notes of the lute still drifting through the warm air and the instrument itself cradled between them like a dearly-loved child.

So, how was that? Sorry it to for fucking ever to get up. I'm a procrastinator if there ever was one.

Oh and yeah, I _did_ lie about those hits about Mystrade… They were a lotmore than hints.**Chapter 1**

Rating: I don't know right now. I'll work it out later when I know what's actually going to happen in the story line. But warnings for sexualiness in this, including a wet dream and kissing and touching of a penis, mentioned very barely.

Ships: Johnlock still and okay, I was lying about the hints at Mystrade.

—-

"He's your _brother_, Sherlock, he can't be _that_ bad."

Sherlock shot John a disdained look from under the hood of his pale green robe - a light, almost airy thing that clung to him in all sorts of distracting ways and, John was sure, was far too revealing for a summons to the Imperial City Palace of all places, but Sherlock deemed it perfectly reasonable, and so the ex-soldier really had no room to argue. He never did with Sherlock.

"Yes, that's exactly why he's so bad," the Mage snapped, the dark cloak that he hadn't even bothered removing on entry to the building billowing out behind him as he stormed through the brilliant halls at a pace so fast he was surely doing the plush carpets a lifetime's wear with each step, not to mention making it almost impossible for John to catch up with him.

"He's an arrogant, self-centred beast of a man, who thinks he can send his little toy soldiers out to bully me into helping him," Sherlock continued, his tone dripping with acid, "He practically is the Empire, when he's not being the Aldmeri Dominion on a freelance basis." He tutted in disgust, coming to an almost screeching stop outside a large set of ornate doors either side of which stood two guards in smart well-polished armour, red dragons adorning their chests, bows slung across their backs.

"Sally," Sherlock regarded the Redguard woman on his right with a tight, snarky smile, before turning to the dark-haired Bosmer at her side, "Anderson."

They both sneered back.

"What are you doing here, freak?" Sally asked, voice dripping with animosity as she folded her arms across her chest, looking him up and down. John, for the time being, went completely ignored.

"I was invited," Sherlock replied, his tone sarcastically mocking and simple, as though he were talking to a complete idiot, which, in his mind at least, he was, "By my brother. I think he wanted to talk to me."

"Well, you know what I think?" she replied, lips tensed in something akin to a snarl.

"Always, Sally," Sherlock shot her that same false-smile. He really was one step short of sticking his tongue out at her like a child, John thought. "Come along John."

John scampered behind quickly, eyes fixed on the floor in pure mortification.

"Who was that?" he asked, catching up with Sherlock's long strides, huffing slightly under his breath.

"An idiot," Sherlock replied simply and John scowled.

"Sherlock, that's cruel," he scolded, "Not to mention unnecessary."

"It really wasn't, they both had it coming to be- By the Eight, Mycroft!"

Sherlock's tone dripped with surprise and disgust, enough to make John follow his line of sight, his own eyes growing wide.

In one of the thirty tall-backed, dark mahogany chairs that stood around the stone table at the centre of the Elder Council Chamber a handsome, red-haired Altmer - who was obviously Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, judging by the man's outburst - sat with another man, an Imperial with silver hair - apparently the Captain of the Imperial Watch according to his armoured uniform - knelt above him, both of them engrossed in what seemed to be a fierce battle of tongue and lips.

"_What _are you doing?" Sherlock demanded, his pale skin flushing its own red, one of pure fury. Mycroft shrugged noncommittally; turning back to the man he had been kissing and smiling softly up at him, pushing him slowly off his lap.

"I'll see you later, Greg," he murmured, finally standing - he was actually just an inch or so taller than the Guard Captain when he stood up straight, as were most Altmer - and leaning down to give him a peck on the cheek, accompanied by a less than polite smack to the rear. His lover blushed and yelped, fumbling and almost dropping the grand, white helmet that he held under his arm, before quickly turning on his heel and hurrying away, up the steps and out of the door with a band that echoed about the densely silent room.

Mycroft watched him go with a look that was almost wistful, before turning back to his brother and slipping into his tight-lipped 'I really do hate formalities' smile.

"Sherlock," he said in a tone far too polite to be speaking to his own brother, and then turned to John, "Oh and you brought your 'friend' too… Marvellous." He smiled slightly at John, a small shiver skipping nervously down the ex-soldier's spine.

"What. Was. That?" Sherlock demanded, his lips twisting up into a slight snarl.

"Oh, Greg?" Mycroft asked, as though he had forgotten about the encounter already, "Just... Keeping up a healthy relationship with the force, that's all." He smiled again, this time something that was half-way believable, before letting it drop away.

"I need to speak to you about something very serious."

"Wouldn't you rather be bedding your new boyfriend?" Sherlock snapped in reply, folding his arms across his chest and squaring his shoulders slightly.

"Wouldn't you rather be bedding yours?" Mycroft countered and, for a moment, between the profuse blushing and embarrassment, John couldn't help but find humour in how much like bickering children they looked.

Mycroft soon caught himself and straightened up again, taking a long breath to wipe his face of any emotion.

"I trust you're familiar with the 'Thieves Guild?'" he asked, the words dripping with a sort of sarcasm, as though a guild of thieves was the most ridiculous idea he'd ever heard.

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded. "_Of course_," he replied, still scowling but keeping his tone to something somewhat polite. Mycroft nodded.

"We've been running into a... Spot of trouble with them as of late," he explained, "Ever since they came under new 'management.'" He reached into the inside of his robes and pulled out a roll of thick parchment, holding it out to his brother only to be sharply ignored. John took it instead, earning him a scowl from his partner as he did so.

"James Moriarty, have you heard of him?" Mycroft asked, and Sherlock shook his head, "Well, you should have, you obviously haven't been paying enough attention." He shook his head. "We never had a single problem with the last Guildmaster, all of their 'jobs' came through us of course, but this follow has been less than… Compliant."

He turned back to his brother, looking serious.

"We need you to terminate James Moriarty's control, from the inside," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "Find out what up to, stop him through whatever means necessary, that sort of thing. Will you do it?"

The immediate response was a simple, "No," followed by a long, thoughtful pause and an almost dismissive, "I'll think about it," before the Mage turned sharply on his heel and stomped towards the door. John couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips as he looked after him, turning to roll his eyes at Mycroft who gave nothing but a small smile in return, reaching out a hand.

"Until next time, John," he said, as the Nord took his hand and shook it.

"Yeah, next time…" John replied, giving him a small nod before racing out after his other.

"I _hate_ him," Sherlock almost spat the words, pacing up and down behind John as he waited to be served at the counter of the Tiber Septim Hotel in the Talos Plaza District of the city. John ignored him.

"It's forty Septims for a double room," the woman behind the desk informed him, looking the two men up and down over her reading spectacles.

"We're not-" John began, almost as a reflex, then shook his head, "Yes, yeah, that'll be brilliant, thank you." Old habits, formed from months of being mistakenly called a couple by everyone everywhere, apparently do die hard.

John fished in his pockets and pulled out forty Septims worth of coins, placing them down on the counter; glad that the woman's piercing, sceptical gaze wasn't trained on him just for a moment as she counted the money. He could still feel Sherlock's at his back anyway, and that was enough for any man.

The stern-looking woman, after double, triple and quadruple checking, finally nodded, reaching into the draw of the counter and pulling out a large, old-looking key with a wooden block attached to the end by a metal ring.

"Last room on the left once you get to the top of the stairs," she deadpanned, dropping the key into John's hand before immediately turning back to the book she was writing in. John said a quick thank you, before taking Sherlock's hand, lacing his fingers through the other's familiar ones, and leading him up the stairs. The Mage scowled and wriggled out of his grip with a mutter of, "I know where it is," before storming off ahead of him. John sighed and followed behind, as always, each step muffled by the soft carpet, making the short journey seem even more monotonous.

When he finally reached the top, Sherlock was already stood by the door, tapping his foot impatiently, arms folded across his chest and a dangerous look in his eye. John hurried over and stuck the key in the lock, pushing it open to let Sherlock fly in with a whirl of dark cloak and provocative robes. Again, the ex-soldier followed behind with a roll of his eyes.

"Ah, ah, ah," he protested as Sherlock lay down on the bed, fingers steepled under his chin, "No you don't." He pushed him slightly, enough to sit down, and Sherlock rolled over with a grumble, arms folded across his chest and a huff escaping his lips.

"You almost didn't get the double room," he said, voice low and whiny like a child. John laughed.

"And you said you don't care what people think about us," he replied, giving the elf a small poke in the side. He squirmed away.

"You're just angry that Mycroft made you feel like an idiot," he continued, beginning to undo the clasps on his heavy iron boots, sliding his feet out and wriggling them free of stiffness, "That you couldn't _deduce_ the fact he's seeing someone."

Sherlock let out another grumble, snapping out a sharp, "Piss off," turning his head so John couldn't look him in the eye.

"But, if I piss off," John replied in the sweetest voice he could muster on such a thin temper, fiddling with the buckle on his breastplate as he tried to hold back a sigh, "You can't undress me…"

He waited a moment, but Sherlock still didn't move. He let out the sigh he had been holding back, albeit a bit more overdramatically than needed, before slowly beginning to lift himself from the bed. A soft creak of springs made him pause and soon there were long, pale hands splaying out across his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed.

"Stay," Sherlock murmured, voice surprisingly soft and close to his ear, "You insufferable brute…"

Slowly, with only the sound of leather being pulled through buckles and pins falling into place filling the room, John was undressed, plate by plate. First, the breastplate was removed; the soft, warm fur lining damp with perspiration, then came the turn of the thickly padded greaves about his legs and the Pauldron that protected his shoulders, the sound of metal against metal screeching in the silence. Sherlock's skilled hand paused when they reached the thick strap of John's belt, the heavy buckle that fastening the sheath of his sword to the leather cool under his fingertips as he dusted them over it, then down the blade's encasing. The hard, weather-word leather was familiar against his skin, as were the letters that were etched into it. He traced them slowly. _Drakenskirous_, Dragonsbane. The name sent a thrill through Sherlock's entire body and he pictured the blade beneath the casing. Pure, red-hued dragon's bone, with a grip and centre crafted of pure iron, precious gems embedded in the pommel. The Gods only know how John got that…

Eventually he tore his attention away from the sword, finally beginning to undo the belt and soon he was left in only his undergarments. His hands trailed down John's back and he muttered a small incantation under his breath, warming them just enough to soothe his lover's taut muscles. John shivered slightly, which seemed like the wrong reaction to have at the warmth of it all, but it felt _so good_. He caught the Mage's slender fingers as they began moving down his chest and began kissing his palm slowly. Sherlock stopped still.

"I… I'm not going to sleep with you," he said, voice breaking through the uneven silence quite timidly, "Not… Not tonight." John smiled softly.

"And does that mean I can't kiss you?" he asked, "I didn't realize they weren't both mutually exclusive…"

Sherlock paused again, seeming to have a moment of indecision.

"Kissing is… Fine," he confirmed after a moment, "But…" He scrambled away, reaching down to the end of the bed where his heavy pack was resting, tugging it up and pulling the drawstring open. He rummaged around for a moment before finally pulling out his lute.

The instrument was old and worn, the once bright-red paint worn away completely, leaving only the bare wood underneath. The gut strings were wearing thin as well, but Sherlock had a small container of those at the bottom of his pack. He seemed to be constantly changing and retuning them, tightening them and loosening them again until they were just right.

"I… Need to practice," the Mage informed him, and John smiled again. Sherlock was still… On unsettled grounds when it came to sex. There would be some night when he would gladly take John up to bed, strip him off slowly and take his time to study every inch of him. Then there were some nights when he was perfectly content to have John's warm body above him, to let him kiss and caress his skin in warm flows of passion and love as long or as hard as he wanted to.

Then there were some nights like tonight where he wouldn't have touched sex with a care pole, let alone 'waste' his time on it when he was busy. But John understood, he always had, better than anyone else he'd ever met before.

The ex-soldier smiled softly and patted the space next to him on the bed as he lifted his feet onto the covers.

"Come and play for me," he murmured with a reassuring smile. Sherlock returned the smile with one of his own and lay down next to his lover, head resting in his lap as he plucked softly at the strings, tightening and loosening them as he saw fit. Eventually, after the perfection of each and every note, his random strumming became something more tuneful, a soft melody that sounded like lullaby, but John recognized as a troop-rallying war-ballad from his time in the Legion, and several slightly ale-tinted evenings in various taverns across Skyrim.

Sherlock could do that; manipulate the music to suit his own needs, almost as well as he could with people.

John smiled softly and picked up the copy of _Guide to the Imperial City_ that rested on the bedside table, flicking through it with one hand as the other began combing through Sherlock's hair, twisting his soft ringlets about his fingers as he listening to Sherlock's soft voice as he sang under his breath, a song of passion, and war, and danger, and adventure, making John's eyes slowly begin to get heavier and heavier.

That evening they fell asleep in each other's arms, the soft notes of the lute still drifting through the warm air and the instrument itself cradled between them like a dearly-loved child.

* * *

So, how was that? Sorry it to for fucking ever to get up. I'm a procrastinator if there ever was one.

Oh and yeah, I _did_ lie about those hits about Mystrade… They were a lot more than hints.

Also, this is up on for anyone who wants it one there.


End file.
